Pain Is A Choice
by Mintey
Summary: Cooperation is mandatory. Suffering is optional. The past is personal. Movie-verse. Agent Romanoff is tracking down a lead to a scumbag employer - that is, until she gets caught. How will she handle the many accusations while trying to stay on the good sides of two completely different organizations?
1. Chapter 1: The Black Widow

**Disclaimer:** I don't own this movie or anything... if I did, I wouldn't be on FanFiction, and this would be a script for the next Marvel movie.

**Movie-verse. **Pre-Iron Man, Captain America, Thor, Hulk, et cetera. Only using one comic book element, but to say what would be a spoiler.

**Don't like it, don't read. **Set in the times when S.H.I.E.L.D. agents were just agents without no superpowers. A story of how Black Widow joined S.H.I.E.L.D. and the problems that she brought with her.

* * *

**.: Chapter One : The Black Widow :.**

"Sir, it seems we have another situation," said Maria Hill, eyeing the red hourglass-shaped symbol that flashed on her computer screen.

Phil Coulson was knee-deep in legal paperwork - he was big on that sort of thing - so the last thing he needed at the moment was a petty situation. It was probably nothing, anyway. Maybe another "training accident" caused by Mr. Tony Stark needed covering up from the press, or perhaps Agent Barton had managed to accidentally puncture himself with a poison-tipped arrowhead again. Assuming it wasn't the latter, Coulson figured Barton could handle whatever it was. "Get Barton on it, I'm busy."

"No, sir, you don't under-"

"I don't have time for this right now. Barton is fully capable."

"It's the Black Widow, sir. He's struck again."

Agent Hill now had Phil's full attention. He quickly moved the sensitive information off his desk and hurried to where she was working on her computer. "By struck, you mean..."

"Killed, sir. Except it's worse this time. He attempted to break into the S.H.I.E.L.D. facility in Western Poland." Maria pulled security footage onto the screen. "The backup generators were able to run the security cameras long enough for us to see Agent Lonsard call for a lock down, only to be shot."

Coulson banged his fist on the desk and Maria jumped. "This guy is making a lot of trouble for me. Call Barton, tell him to pack his bags. Get Fury on the line, tell him we need to talk to the Board. Immediately. I expect to see the three of you in the conference room in thirty minutes. Get me a hard copy of everything we know, while you're at it."

"Right away, sir."

Keeping the press off of Stark's ass could wait. Besides, the guy needed to learn how to handle himself properly. If this Black Widow figure wasn't handled soon, a training exercise gone wrong would be of the least interest to the press, and of Coulson's worries.

**~Ф~Ф~Ф~Ф~Ф****~Ф~Ф~Ф~Ф~Ф~**

Later that evening, Maria Hill, Clint Barton, Nick Fury, and Phil Coulson were sat at a secure video conference with other S.H.I.E.L.D. directors. Everyone seemed tense, with the exception of Clint Barton, who had been lying back in his chair with his arms above his head, until Coulson promptly scolded him. Barton rolled his eyes but obeyed reluctantly, though he remained uninterested.

"We need to control this problem," Fury was saying, "Before more of my agents are sent home in boxes."

"If we could trick him into breaking in again, we could trap him and move him to a secure facility for questioning," suggested the representative from Asia.

"With all due respect, sir, that won't work. The Black Widow has escaped prisons before. Who's to say he won't again?" Maria asked.

"Black Widow?" said Clint, suddenly interested. "Is he related to Peter Parker, the famous Spiderman?" Everyone turned and stared him down, so he said, "Geeze, lighten up, it was just a joke."

Coulson, still slightly annoyed at his top agent for being so lax about the situation, said, "No, we will not lighten up, Barton. This is no time for joking - it's serious. Very serious. Since we have no name on file for this assassin, we call him the Black Widow, because he _kills_. Do you understand?" Coulson pulled out a manila folder bearing the S.H.I.E.L.D. crest and a big red stamp that read CLASSIFIED, a bit clichéd, but certainly necessary. "Several Russian politicians." He threw down their photographs on a central work table. "All dead." He pulled a newspaper clipping titled _Необъяснимая пожарной_ and held it up. "Three Ex-KGB officers mysteriously gathered in this house before it caught on fire, with them trapped inside. And I'm sure you're aware of the recent situation in Poland."

Nick Fury leaned against the table. "We were hoping for a more... permanent solution."

"You mean killing this Black Widow man?" the European director asked.

"That is exactly what I mean," said Fury. "Agent Barton is certainly up for the challenge."

Barton started to open his mouth but Hill shook her head, signaling it would be best for him to keep his mouth shut. He considered it but spoke up anyway. "Only if I can use my bow."

"We'll discuss that later," whispered Coulson, trying to shut Barton up before the Council made another of their infamous stupid decisions.

After several minutes of tense waiting, the images of the Council flickered back up on the screen. "Fine, just make sure it stays out of the press, we don't need an international incident on our hands."

Maria followed Clint and Phil as they headed to the bedrooms on the south side of the carrier. "Are you saying you don't think I can do it?" Clint asked, stopping to slide his keycard into the security checkpoint.

"No," said Phil, "Just... maybe it would be better if you used a rifle for this. Instead of your bow."

"I'm no good with guns and you know that."

"Not good with guns? It's the same concept, you point and you shoot - if you can get it with a bow, you can get it with a gun. Look at your sharpshooting record..."

Maria left the boys arguing in Clint's room. When Phil and Clint got in fights, well, it wasn't very pretty. Phil thought Clint to be too cocky and relaxed, while Clint believed Phil was too serious and by-the-book. She shook her head and continued down the hallway, towards storage 10C, the weapons department. If they wouldn't decide who was right, she would make the choice for them. She grabbed a pistol and a bow - there, Phil could have his gun, and Clint could have his bow.

"Wheels up in ten," she informed Barton upon her return, placing the weapons upon his bed. Clint shoved the weapons on top of his messily packed clothes. Phil was left standing hands-on-hips glaring at Barton.

"Barton, be careful, I don't need to lose more agents," warned Phil.

Without stopping, Clint called over his shoulder, "Aw, you care. Don't worry, he won't be doing much with an arrow through his side."

"Bullet," said Phil. "And don't you dare try anything stupid!" Phil turned to Maria, who was staring perplexed after Baton. "He's going to do something stupid, isn't he."

"Most likely. Remind me again why this five year old is on the top of your squad list?"


	2. Chapter 2 : Inhuman

**.: Chapter Two : Inhuman :.**

Natasha Romanoff ran her hands through her long red hair as she sat listening to the motel room's crappy radio. From what little Polish she knew, Natasha was able to make out that her failed attempt on breaking into S.H.I.E.L.D. had gone unnoticed. That, or S.H.I.E.L.D. had managed to keep it under wraps, which was more than likely, since there was nothing on the radio. Besides, the wonderboys at S.H.I.E.L.D. were trying to uphold their public image - something told her killing one of their agents wouldn't be the best for the news stands. He had gotten in the way, and there was no escape without killing him, so Natasha did what she had to do.

Sighing, she pulled out the weathered blueprints of the base. It had cost her more than cold hard cash to get these, and to get into the facility? If time were money, she'd be farther in debt than the ocean is deep. She'd screwed up her first attempt, and now, she told herself gritting her teeth, her second attempt (as much as she hated that "s" word) would be even harder. Security would likely be high, since they knew where she entered last time, so it was time for a new plan. She would strike tonight, while their agents were still confused as to what had happened the evening before. They wouldn't expect an attack so soon.

Meanwhile, not too far from the run-down motel, Clint Barton sat twiddling his thumbs on a rooftop, shrouded in the shadows. After scouting the base several times in broad daylight, he chose the place where the Black Widow was most likely to enter, the place with hardly any eyes above, and sat waiting. It was now many hours past then, late into the night, and Clint was getting bored. There was only so many times a man could tune up his bow. He was just getting ready to call up Coulson and request a ride home when Clint saw him, just barely, before he darted into the shadows, clinging to the walls like the spider he was named after.

"Target acquired," whispered Barton to himself, drawing an arrow. Maybe now he could go home and get some decent shuteye, along with blankets. Yeah, lots of blankets sounded good. Some hot chocolate with the little marshmallows, too. Clint forced his mind back to the target. He watched with his elbow drawn back and the bowstring biting into his cheek, waiting for the perfect moment. All he needed to do was release the string and the deed would be done.

Romanoff ran in the blind spots of the security cameras, occasionally darting behind crevices in the walls, hiding from passing agents working the night shift. Everything seemed too easy, but then again she had been hiding in the shadows since she was a child wanting a cookie from the top shelf jar. There weren't many agents larking about, and she'd only spotted one guard on the rooftops, who was distracted by his cell-phone anyway. What was that about poster child agents again? He was probably texting his girlfriend. All the more reason to keep out of relationships, mused Natasha as she inched along the wall towards the heavy metal door. Sliding the keycard into the door checkpoint, she suspiciously glanced around. Still no one. Maybe everyone had been called to headquarters to sniff her out. Shrugging, she heard the door unlock with a click, and she slipped inside.

Clint watched as the figure entered into the door. "Damnit." This guy _was_ good. Whatever. He'd be no match for a good old arrow through the temple when he was least expecting it. Hastily, Barton tied a rope around the nearest solid object and rappelled down the roof, forgetting all about the pistol Maria had packed for him. And the throwing knives. And the tranquilizer darts. And every other gadget he had packed away in his bag of tricks. Clint landed on the ground with a thud, causing some of the guards to turn and look, but Clint waved them off and ran to the door. Not being a regular around the Poland base, he had a bit of trouble with the scanner but managed to disable it. Who needed keycards. The door squeaked as it opened, the mechanical features not functioning with Clint's break-in. So much for stealth, thought Clint.

In the main corridor, Natasha turned at the sound of the noise and broke into a run, forgetting all notions of stealth. If they knew she was here already, she'd have to steal the files quickly, before they found her, or, well, she preferred not to think of what happened next. Clint heard the footsteps and followed suit with his bow still drawn. The Black Widow had gone to the computer database, whether to hide among the computers or steal files, Clint didn't know. Cautiously, he pushed passed the door left ajar and into the darkened room, lit only by the glowing red, green, and blue dots of computer hard-drives. The Black Widow stood silhouetted by a sole computer screen.

There... she was? The Black Widow was a female? Clint squinted to make sure his eyes weren't deceiving him. Unless the new Russian style was long and curly red hair, the Black Widow was a girl. Odd - the best female agent he knew was Maria Hill, and she still got squirmy about killing anyone. So, to Clint, it seemed odd that a girl was behind the trail of mass destruction S.H.I.E.L.D. had worked so hard to track for the past several months. Still, Barton aimed his bow and prepared to loosen his fingers on the string when she spoke.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," said Natasha, suddenly realizing she wasn't alone, and likely had a gun trained on her back. She turned slowly, expecting to see a slew of agents with their automatic rifles and bulletproof vests. Instead she saw Clint Barton, who did the last thing she expected him to do: laugh.

Clint chuckled, still holding his aim. "Aren't I supposed to be saying that to _you_?" He vaguely heard Coulson's voice in the back of his head, telling him to take the first clear shot he got, but the warning eased passed him as he continued to reason with her. "So how does a girl like you get such a nasty reputation?"

Natasha batted her eyelashes, thinking. "Like this." She kicked out, her foot connecting forcefully with Clint's abdomen before spinning around and landing another stunning blow to his side. Clint dropped his bow in favor of landing a sharp punch to her jaw, yet she countered by grabbing his fist mid-swing, twisting him around, and swiftly putting him in a head lock, which wasn't hard given his short height. He struggled to release himself from her grasp until she spoke again. "You must be new."

"Why?" asked Clint, craning his neck up in a failed attempt to breathe a bit better.

"Because you're terrible at hand-to-hand combat, and you don't have a gun."

"What is it with everyone and guns? And hey! My combat isn't..." His sentence trailed off when he caught her disbelieving stare. He broke their eye contact to search for his bow, which was lying abandoned several feet away. If he could just...

Natasha cried out in pain as Clint connected his foot with her shin. Short height, maybe, but it had taught him how to stand up to the taller bullies in middle school. He dove towards his bow, rolling to cover ground more quickly, drew it from a kneel, and stood up slowly. He stuck the arrowhead against her neck.

"You attack me, I release the bowstring, and this goes through your neck." Natasha slowly put her hands up, signaling truce. "For the record, guns aren't the only fatal weapons in existence. Now, tell me why you're here, before... Never mind. Tell me what you were looking for."

"Before you what, kill me?" Natasha didn't blink, didn't swallow, didn't stop staring at Clint. It was unnerving, the way the woman was so unafraid, to the point of almost being not human. As if all her emotions had been removed.

"Why were you here?" demanded Barton, trying to ignore her eerily calm nature. When she remained silent, he responded by sticking the arrow deeper into her neck.

The woman grinned wickedly and her eyes lit up at the challenge. "Wouldn't you like to know."

"Tell me. Tell me now." Blood began to trickle down her neck as Clint added more pressure. His hands wavered a bit - why did this scare him so much? It wasn't like he hadn't killed anyone - no, that wasn't it. Her. She scared him, and he didn't quite know why. Nor would he, Clint told himself, steadying the bow. He wouldn't get the answers he wanted, but she wouldn't get to live. Clint found this a fair trade.

Figuring she wasn't getting out of this alive, either way, Natasha just shrugged. If these were her last words, they might as well be fun. "You know, just thought I'd do a little pleasure reading." She cracked another grin. "What is it S.H.I.E.L.D. is workin-" She gasped, feeling the cut on her neck grow larger. The stream of blood on her neck snapped a sudden realization of imminent death upon her. "Wait, wait, wait. Don't kill me."

"I don't see one reason why I shouldn't," countered Clint.

For once, Natasha wasn't lying when she said, "Because I'm on your side."

"On my side, right," Clint says with a smirk on his face. "Which explains why you've killed so many men including one of our very own just last night." The bowstring slipped a bit in his fingers, and when Natasha noticed, the words came flowing out.

"There's a Russian. My old boss, who turned out to be a lying scheming bag of scum, but that's besides the point. He's under-cover in S.H.I.E.L.D. That's all I know - but he wants your secrets and I want him dead. That's why I was here, I swear! I only wanted to find his file and I thought that if I could look through the photos I could-"

Barton cut her off. He'd heard the spiel thousands of times. People would say anything to escape death, and he knew that. Yet, he couldn't stop the question forming on his lips. "How do I know you're not manipulating me?"

"If there's one thing I am, Agent..."

"Barton."

Natasha Romanoff met Agent Barton's eyes, searching them with desperation and newfound truth. "If there's one thing I am, Agent Barton, it's true to my word." Barton watched this woman who he previously thought inhuman spring to life. She gulped, trying to swallow her worries. She blinked, holding back tears, not of physical pain, but of emotional. She faltered, and that was when Clint lowered his bow.

"I still don't trust you, Miss..."

"Ms. Romanoff," supplied Natasha with a sigh of relief.

"Ms. Romanoff. I'll give you a chance - but only one chance. If you turn out to be lying, I'd hate to be you."

"I know, I know, arrow through my neck."

"Wow, that sounds so simplistic. I'm sure I can think of more creative ways for you to die."


	3. Chapter 3 : Punishment

**.: Chapter Three : Punishment :.**

She hadn't spoken when he'd walked her out of the S.H.I.E.L.D. facility. She hadn't spoken when he'd led her across the dark runway towards a lone waiting aircraft. She hadn't spoken when he took out the medical kit and bandaged her neck. She hadn't spoken when he'd grabbed her hand and let her inside the massive ship she heard was called the Helicarrier. She hadn't spoken when Agent Barton started arguing with a man named Phil. She hadn't spoken when Barton had made googly eyes at a dark haired woman wearing a peeved expression. She hadn't spoken when he explained that she'd have to be kept in the interrogation room for the night. She hadn't spoken. At all.

"It's been fifteen hours," said Clint, "And she hasn't said anything."

"Maybe that would be because she's a trained assassin, Clint!" Phil threw his hands up in exasperation. Did Clint have any sense of reason? They'd been sat with leftover coffee and mounds of paper files the whole night, all the while keeping an eye on the woman who sat motionless in the room across the glass window. "She's not going to do anything, except maybe kill her way out of here."

Except Phil was wrong. She had been doing something, and Clint had been watching, his eyes tracing her subtle actions. "I've been watching her like a hawk since the minute she sat down. Look there." He pointed to her eyes. The men watched as she scanned the corners of the room, searching for the cameras that weren't there. Classified rooms didn't get cameras - they knew that, she didn't. "And watch how her lip trembles when she can't find them."

"Fine, so she's searching for an escape route, that tells us noth-"

"She's scared. Let me talk to her."

Phil crossed his arms. "I think you've done enough _talking_ to her."

"She says she has something useful, why don't you believe her? What harm can she do?"

"What harm can she do?" Phil nearly screamed. "What part of deadly assassin are you _not _hearing Barton?" He let out an exasperated sigh. "Fine, I'll give you one hour, or however long it takes for me to sort this out with Fury." Coulson left the viewing room, with Barton not far behind.

Agent Barton entered into the cold interrogation room and leaned against one of the steel walls. The blue light fell lightly on his face, illuminating the dark circles under his eyes, undoubtedly caused by the stress of the past day or so, and the grim line that his mouth clenched tightly into. He went to cross his arms but instead let them fall nonchalantly to his sides. He pressed his palms against the wall and observed her. Natasha dropped her gaze to study her folded hands.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

Barton blinked. There were a million things he'd expected her to say, or to not say, but _I'm sorry_ was not one of them. All he could do was stutter, "For what?"

It was then the woman, known as mute to all those aware of her presence, began to spin a web of words. "I didn't want to kill him, the agent from the Poland base, he just got in the way, and that's what I'm trained to do, eliminate threats, so I just kind of acted and I didn't think and-"

"Woah, woah, woah, slow down."

Romanoff took a deep breath and realized all she had just admitted. Her training had left her devoid of feelings, of pain, of remorse, yet something about this man, this Agent Barton, brought those emotions back, which was why she could hardly believe the final words that escaped her lips. Maybe it was because of the likeness he shared with a partner of hers, or maybe it was the blatant differences. Either way, she mumbled, "Mostly I'm sorry for hurting you, for wasting your time."

"I'm sure S.H.I.E.L.D. doesn't consider this a waste of time, considering-"

"No. You." She gave a small nod in his direction. "You look like hell." That was the last thing she said, being too ashamed to add much more. Barton managed a blank expression with a clenched jaw, and Romanoff kept her vision trained on the concrete floor.

The awkwardness was broken only by Coulson peering his head in, and as Clint noted, only his head - poor guy was probably afraid the Black Widow had escaped and killed Barton - to announce that Fury had called a conference without the board. Unusual, but given the circumstances, understandable. Barton pushed off the wall, following suit to Phil. When Natasha heard the buzz signaling the door lock sliding into place, she rested her head on her hands. Things had just taken a turn for the worse, she was sure of it.

At the other end of the Helicarrier, Fury paced along the glass floor in front of the chair Clint sat unhappily in. "Listen, Agent Barton, you've done some stupid things and poor judgments in your time here, but this is not acceptable. You had direct orders to kill this target, and I don't see a body bag. Only a handful of people know about this and I'd like to keep it that way because-"

"Director Fury, I would say I'm sorry, but I'm not, because this woman could help-" Fury cut Barton off by holding up a finger.

"- we've decided to keep her as an asset. Rather, release her as an asset. Her information checks out. This is going to be a tough operation to run, one that I'd frankly like to keep between Hill, Coulson, Romanoff, me, and you - the board does_ not_ need to hear about this."

Barton stood up. "Sir, you won't regret this."

"Sit down. I'm not finished." Barton slumped back into the chair. "However, neither can we have her running wild."

"No, sir, that would be bad."

"Would you stop interrupting me?" Fury said, the irritation in his voice clear. "Which is why, starting now, you will be her babysitter."

Clint's eyes widened. If there was one thing that he hated most in the world, it was watch duty. "But Director-"

"I think that's a fair enough punishment, don't you, Agent Coulson?"

Seeing the wheels turning in Clint's head for words of protest, Coulson added, "Yes, I think that would be excellent punishment."

"Good." Fury tossed a set of keys into Clint's lap. "You two will be living together, then. Best to keep track of her at all times. Officially, you're still in Europe, hunting this mysterious Black Widow. We can't have any loose ends, otherwise our target could get suspicious."

Clint stood up grumbling. Fury shoved a file folder into Clint's chest as he left, heading towards the containment wing. This was going to be an unpleasant mission, so Clint decided to grit his teeth and finish it as quickly and effectively as possible.

"Have fun!" called Coulson after Barton. "We'll be in touch!"

**~Ф~Ф~Ф~Ф~Ф****~Ф~Ф~Ф~Ф~Ф~**

A thousand miles away, in Western Poland, a man turned a key into a motel room, expecting to find his partner and her belongings long gone, with the exception of the data he'd asked of her. Instead, he found an unwashed mug in the sink, clothes packed neatly in a bag, with her gun missing from its usual hiding place.

_"If anything goes wrong, don't worry about me," she said, pulling on her black spandex "catsuit", as he liked to call it. "If I can't get out, I'll try and email you the data - it might leave a trail, so you should be careful what computer you check things from." With that, she had loaded her gun and disappeared out the door._

How could he not worry about her? She was his partner. More than that, really, although he often wondered if it was her persona and he was imagining the boundaries to their relationship. Now, as he stood dumbstruck in the apartment room, the realization that she should have disappeared, yet didn't, hitting him like a train. Something was terribly wrong, and it was his fault. He'd planted the idea to go to the base in her head. She had ample proof for her case, and of course official S.H.I.E.L.D. files would help, but he had asked a small favor of her, and that was the deciding factor to the operation.

The first time she'd broken in, she'd gotten what she wanted. He knew this, because she'd told him on the phone that evening. She had also confessed to killing one agent, her voice trying hard to cover the obvious guilt. He replied saying that S.H.I.E.L.D. deserved it after what they had done to his friend, and though he cared less about other people, they had undoubtedly hurt many others. As far as he was concerned, the only thing S.H.I.E.L.D. was good for - other than ruining lives - was their thorough information database. And that was what he wanted, so she had promised to return a second night.

But that second night, she hadn't returned to base. Knowing S.H.I.E.L.D. could be on the doorstep any minute, the man gathered her belongings, tidied up the motel room, and left the key on the doorstep. He found a deserted library a few blocks over, which didn't take much breaking into. The good thing about this part of Poland was their hospitality and lack of security - no cameras, low quality locks. All he needed to do was log onto the burner email to see the files he'd been waiting for since, well, since that night he'd woken up in a cold yet sweaty state.

The white light of the computer screen illuminated his face as he drummed his fingertips on the wooden table, impatiently awaiting the log in screen. When he finally opened the files, after what seemed like hours of waiting (although, he promised himself, in retrospect to what he'd waited in the years before, and the years his friend had spent waiting, this was nothing), his eyes filled with small tears at the picture that filled the screen. He couldn't be bothered to even read more than one sentence of the file - the only sentence that really mattered anyway, he mused.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered, quickly closing the window, not being able to handle the memories that surfaced. "You were my fault, too."


	4. Chapter 4 : Scott Anderson

**.: Chapter Four : Scott Anderson :.**

Awkward was an understatement. If there was such a thing as sexual tension that had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with murder, there would be a picture of Barton and Romanoff under the description. However, putting the two assassins in the same house for an elongated time should have caused more trouble than it actually did. With the exception of the laying down of boundaries, which included no entering of the other's room, no outside contact for Romanoff and no letting her out of Barton's sight, the two agents said hardly anything to acknowledge the other's presence.

On the fifth day, Natasha had resorted to throwing kitchen knives at the beaten-down apartment's already scarred walls, which unnerved Clint, though he would never admit it, and Clint had resorted to making bows out of chopsticks and yarn. Even just looking at the holes in the wall left by knives gave him the shivers. So, that night while she slept, he forced the drawer out of the wall and dumped its contents under his pillow. It left for some uncomfortable sleeping, so grumbling, he tore the sheets off the bed and curled up in the corner. It wasn't like the bed was any more comfortable than the floor, anyway.

The next morning, Natasha woke up from a rather unpleasant dream that had reminded her of her partner and her promise, so she went straight for the drawer of knives. She could picture her imaginary target in her head, and already feel the vibration of the knife as it left her hand. She smiled to herself, reaching for the handle. Except... the drawer was missing. Her smile turned into a frown, realizing what happened. Barton must have told Phil about her habit sometime last night, and been ordered to hide them.

"BARTON, WHERE THE HELL DID THE KNIVES GO!" yelled Romanoff. She stormed into his room, forgetting the boundaries rule. Barton was balled up in the corner with his hands over his ears and a collection of his chopstick bows by his side. "I WILL TEAR THIS ROOM APART," she threatened, and proceeded to do so. When she finally thought to pick up the pillow, and discovered the collection of her shiny babies, she turned to a squinting Barton, who had been trying to sleep through the racket. "My god, it's like a freaking nest."

Barton moaned and struggled his way out of the cocoon of sheets he was stuck in, revealing only a pair of boxers. "I thought we weren't talking."

"Birds can't talk," reminded Romanoff, stuffing knives anywhere she could carry safely. Natasha stared into the wall, trying desperately to not look at Barton. She made a point of exaggerating the turn of her head, trying to salvage some boundaries, though she couldn't help but sneak a small peek at the man's almost-naked body. "And put on some pants, we're going out."

He jumped to alert. "You don't get to make the decisions," Barton said, suddenly suspicious. He turned to his duffle bag and pulled out a black S.H.I.E.L.D. uniform. Damn Coulson had made a point of packing only the newer spandex version. Fine then, if Phil was playing dirty, so would Clint. Taking Romanoff out wasn't dangerous, as long as she stayed in his sight, but it would most certainly annoy his superiors. "Actually, I could be swayed to go for something other than Chinese takeout."

"It's a date, then." Romanoff spun to leave the room.

"Yeah, never call it that again."

"No, never," she said, eyes widening at her slip-up of slang phrases.

"Done."

"Good."

"Good."

The remainder of the day remained sufficiently awkward and things were doomed to become worse when that evening, Romanoff walked out of her room wearing the skin-tight black outfit she'd been wearing the night Barton had been ordered to kill her. She had been wearing clothes Coulson had packed for her (Clint had made a note of the fact that they were all incredibly loose, and he began to wonder if Phil knew him too well - but even so, he'd never dream of sleeping with a target). Barton nearly choked on his drink.

"Christ, Romanoff, we're going to eat dinner, not go on a killing spree!"

"You're wearing your work uniform, so why can't I?"

"One, I did _not_ choose to bring this, Phil did. And two, wearing a S.H.I.E.L.D. uniform gives me the authority to carry a gun, in case you decide that dinner isn't enough action for your catsuit."

"Well, then you should've told Phil to pack me some better clo- did you just call it a catsuit?" said Romanoff, interrupting her own sentence.

"Yes I did, because it's just as revealing. Here, put this on." Barton handed her his black leather jacket before heading out the door, but he couldn't help noticing the pained expression on the woman's face. He pretended not notice, knowing it would land him a snarky response or a slap in the face, or maybe because he knew pointing it out would make her feel worse. He didn't see what was so bad about calling it a catsuit, though.

When they'd sat down at the restaurant, and the food had come after many minutes of silence, Barton finally spoke up.

"Agent Romanoff, huh," said Barton, forking the food around his plate, musing for something to say. "So who do you work for." It came out as more of a statement than a question, which was not the way he had intended.

"Please don't make this an interrogation."

"It's not. I just don't know anything about you."

Romanoff glared at Barton. "That's not how you get to know someone."

"If you're an agent it is."

"Just because I'm an agent doesn't mean I don't have a life, with memories and friends and family and favorite things and feelings!" She glanced down at her plate, unable to stop the red blush creeping up her neck and into her cheeks, and the searing feeling of blood rushing through her veins with an angry pulse. Barton didn't make her angry. The statement made her angry. Because over half of it wasn't true. She didn't have friends; she had _contacts_. And she certainly didn't have family - she never had family; she had _partners_ and that was as close as she got. But most of all, she didn't have feelings, and day after day she thought about how much it pained her, that is, if she was capable of pain. She didn't plan on telling Agent Barton this, though, so she managed to stutter out, "I'm sorry, why don't we just start over. From the very beginning."

"Clint Barton."

"Natasha Romanoff."

"Can I call you Tasha?"

"No."

"Nat?"

"No."

Agent Barton... no, Clint, smiled a little at the game, and she couldn't help but give a small grin back. Maybe this man wasn't half bad - it didn't negate his position as a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, but he was pretty good at making her smile, something she hardly ever did. "Alright, _Natasha_, how are you liking New York City?"

"Too busy for my taste," Natasha said, shrugging.

"And what is your taste?"

"Well, I am from Russia, so personally, more laid back."

"Says the assassin. See, I didn't know that. That you're Russian."

"Really?" she said, a bit distracted.

Clint noticed her eyes darting around. "Here's some trivia about me, then. I notice the little things. And right now, I can see you scanning the room. So spill, spider lady."

"I just um... have to go to the bathroom," she managed. He gave a doubtful glare, pulling out his cellphone in an unspoken warning. "No, really! I just didn't want to say it in front of you."

"Oh. I should-"

"No!" Natasha said. "I mean, I need some privacy." She stood up to leave the table, leaving him cursing himself for being so rude about letting her go to the bathroom. Ruthless killer, maybe, but everyone has urges.

Natasha was taking awfully long in the bathroom, Clint thought to himself, but then again girls usually do. He was just about to get up and check on her anyway when his phone rang.

"Not now Phil, I'm a bit busy."

"Busy _not_ doing your job?"

Clint knew he was going to get a phone call eventually, once Coulson discovered Barton had taken Romanoff out on the town. "Like hell I am. I've put up with that psycho for five days now without talking to anyone else, so don't pull that bullshit on me," said Clint, growing angrier by the second.

"Well that would explain why you let her go wandering the streets on her own."

"I did no such..." Clint's voice trailed off as a sinking feeling entered his gut. "Oh." He dared to glance down at his gun holster which, not to his surprise, was empty. "I've got to go."

Thankfully, a waiter was able to point him in the right direction, and thanks to his stubborn persona, he had another trick up his sleeve. Because of Clint's persistent refusal to carry a gun and his adeptness at "accidentally" losing it, Maria Hill had put a tracker on one's inside, the one she made sure to label clearly PROPERTY OF AGENT CLINT BARTON, in case anyone got the idea to borrow it. And boy, was he happy for her annoying idea as ever. Pressing the digits to her work number, he fled down the street.

"Hill," said Barton, out of breath from running. "I need you to tell me where my gun is."

"Oh, so you suddenly _want_ to kno-"

"Not now!"

"Heading southbound, towards... towards New York Headquarters's apartment building."

Agent Romanoff had a five minute head start on him, but then again, she didn't know it was a race. Barton sprinted down the dark sidewalk, dodging the occasional couple in love or drunken party-goer. Ahead in the distance, he could see the figure of a woman striding purposely up the steps to a familiar building, one he had previously resided in. He sprinted the final yards to close the gap and encased her in a bear hug. Not the most efficient of tactics, but certainly effective to an extent. Besides, he didn't know any other hand-to-hand combat tactics. Wasn't his style.

"Ow, get off of me!"

"So you thought you could go sneaking off. Last time I trust you."

Natasha said, "Fine, let's just go home then." She went to walk away, entirely forgetting that Clint had his arms wrapped around her with no intention of releasing her.

"We're not going anywhere until you tell me everything." He waved his newly reclaimed gun towards the stone steps. "Sit. And explain. Now."

"You know him as an Agent Scott Anderson. I know him as a slimeball business man and spy, synonymous for Vasily Smirnov. He deserves nothing less than a bullet to his skull." By crossing her arms and standing up to leave, Natasha made it clear that she had no intention of saying more.

That evening was spent on conference call with Nick Fury, Phil Coulson, and Maria Hill by Clint, and listening with regret through the thin walls by Natasha. She wouldn't have regretted killing Smirnov, but she definitely would have regretting killing him without answers, which had been the plan. Poor Clint sounded like he was getting beat down upon for her escape. Sighing, she pulled the covers up and tried to drown out the noise.

Clint, however, was still deep in conversation with his bosses. "Thanks for informing me on the target guys, I really appreciate it. Hey, do you mind not telling me anything ever again, while you're at it?"

"Barton, we need you to keep an eye out on Agent Romanoff, and that is all you need to worry about. If a situation arises, you will be asked to join in and filled in on information at a time we deem necessary."

The last thing Natasha heard that night was the elongated beep of a disconnection tone and the distinctive sound of knives being thrown at the wall (most missing, she noted).

**~Ф~Ф~Ф~Ф~Ф****~Ф~Ф~Ф~Ф~Ф~**

In the S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters of New York City, an entirely different long-distance phone call with Poland was taking place. Vasily Smirnov read through the folder for what must have been the hundredth time. He'd managed to get some low ranking agents under his payroll to get him information and office gossip. He chuckled. S.H.I.E.L.D. needed to learn to pay their agents better - it was just asking for enemy bribery.

"Yes, I'm sure it's her," Smirnov said, taking out the security footage of a slender red-haired woman being led through the halls of the Helicarrier. "I'm looking at the photo."

"So she's been captured by them," said the other man. "And she's currently in New York City."

"Apparently, but today is the first time in five days anything's been heard from her. Or seen about her, rather. She appears to be unharmed, meaning S.H.I.E.L.D. has something planned for her."

"She's not hurt, then?"

Smirnov smirked. Young love, how cute. "Are you telling me you have feelings for this woman?"

"No... I... she's my partner. I'm responsible for her."

"Good, then you'll be ready to fly to the States tomorrow morning. You will do whatever it takes to extract her, understand?"

"Whatever it takes," he repeated, already loading his rifle.


	5. Chapter 5 : Partners and Boyfriends

**.: Chapter Five : Partners and Boyfriends :.**

"Welcome to Newark International Airport, local time 5:00 am, temperature 42 degrees. Thank you for flying with us," said the captain over the plane's loudspeakers. _New Jersey_. He shuddered. Why anyone would ever want to live in such a gosh-awful place, he had no idea. He grabbed his carry-on bag from the overhead compartment. Since he wouldn't be staying long, he'd not brought much. Had the TSA thoroughly scanned his bags, all they would have found was a pair of women's clothes and large collection of camera lenses.

It was amazing what you could hide inside those, decided the man as he made his way to the train station. Sure, taking apart and re-assembling a rifle wasn't fun, but considering the alternatives, the camera lenses would do fine. He was headed back to New York, to scout for tonight's mission. The last time he'd been to New York... well, suffice to say, it was quite a long time ago. It pained him to even think of it, mostly because he felt conflicted as to whether the memories should be good or bad.

He stepped off of the Amtrak train into Penn Station and walked out to the exhaust fumes of an overpopulated city. At this early in the morning, only a few cabs were out either driving CEO's off to an early start or bringing party animals home from a late night (and probably a nasty hangover). The man turned on his phone, checking his messages. Smirnov had told him where her S.H.I.E.L.D. babysitter had planned to take her for the day: to the gym, out shopping, and out to dinner at a Chinese place. Whoever this agent was sure had bad taste in food, he thought, but good taste in extraction places. The gym would be in the middle of broad daylight, which wasn't good for him. The shops would be too crowded, which was also bad for him. The Chinese restaurant, though, was perfect. Not too crowded, at night, and had nearby buildings with good access. He dialed the phone number for a secret phone line in a secret office building.

"I've just arrived," said the man as he walked down the sidewalks of New York.

A few miles away by the bird flies, Vasily Smirnov was just getting started on his morning paperwork. "Good. Do you need any extra help tonight?"

"No, I'm sure I'll be fine. Any description of the agent accompanying her tonight?"

"They're likely switching her security detail, and often. Her detail has been known to wear their uniforms, though, so they shouldn't be too hard to spot," said Vasily, chuckling. "Stupid Americans."

The remark should have insulted the assassin, but he wasn't American. Not anymore. So he just ended the conversation and proceeded to climb the fire escapes to find a good view of the restaurant.

Vasily put his phone down on the receiver and resumed his life as Scott Anderson, for the most part. He took out a black book, which he very much enjoyed to call his Little Black Book - it made it sound threatening, and it was - and began scribbling plans. These two assassins were costing him more trouble than he preferred to deal with. Ms. Romanoff had been good to him in the past, that is, until he never came through on his payment to her, or on his promise to keep an asset and personal "friend" of hers alive. If she hadn't found out about her bank account or ally yet, she soon would, and then he'd have more problems than bankruptcy to deal with.

He needed a plan, some way to trick them against each other. A way to kill Ms. Romanoff. The other man, well, he couldn't touch the other man - figuratively and literally - since he belonged officially to a Russian secret service branch. Smirnov set to work, keeping a slew of papers messily scattered across his desk to give the appearance of actual work in case a coworker wandered by. An idea wormed its way into the Russians head.

He walked over to the window, taking out a burner cellphone, and pretended to re-arrange the leaves in a potted plant on the windowsill while in actuality, he was turning on the bug that Nick Fury had planted there. Another cell phone rang in his office, and he began to play clips of words into the bug, occasionally doing some speaking of his own. When he was satisfied with his work, all that could be found was a Scott Anderson sat innocently at his desk, with a smile too devious for morning document filing.

**~Ф~Ф~Ф~Ф~Ф****~Ф~Ф~Ф~Ф~Ф~**

"There, so now you have yourself a sexy little cat-dress to go with your slinky little catsuit," said Clint as the pair emerged from one of the many New York shops, clad in paper shopping bags sporting shirtless models and fancy logos.

"Would you please stop calling it that?" Natasha requested irritably. "Besides, you shouldn't be talking, Mister Uniform-Tight-Enough-To-See-The-Plumbing."

"Excuse me?" Clint planted his feet in the middle of the sidewalk and gave a quick glance down to in between his legs.

"You heard me, loosen it up down there." Natasha couldn't help but give a small giggle at Clint's face. He blinked repeatedly with traces of utter disbelief marked all over his features. Then, he smiled and slowly shook his head.

"If it makes you laugh, continue," he said graciously. "I think this is the first time I've heard you do so."

Natasha quickly straightened her face, going back to her normal stoic expression. "I wasn't laughing." She grabbed Clint's arm and dragged him down the street towards the gym. "Nope, not me."

"Mmmhmm," agreed Clint. "Whatever you want, sweetheart." This sassy remark only caused the pair to laugh harder. "You know, you're not half-bad, _Miss Romanoff_," he said, making a point not to use a nickname. He thought for a minute and quickly added, "Aside from the whole ruthless killing people thing, that's gotta go."

Natasha snorted. "Like you weren't ordered to kill _me_."

"That's different."

"How?"

Clint was growing rapidly uncomfortable with the sudden turn in their conversation. He kept turning his head to glare at people as they passed, checking to see if anyone was hearing things they probably shouldn't. But, if they were going to talk about this, he could at least turn it in his favor. "Why do you do it? Kill people, I mean."

"Because I... I mean, I... um..." Natasha had to give it some thought. "At first it was because it was all I knew, when I was a kid. Then it became about following orders... and now..." She shook her head. "It's mainly personal, now. What about you?"

"I didn't choose this... it kind of chose me," admitted Clint. "I..." Clint didn't like talking about his past, to anyone, so he skipped the reminiscing and muttered, "S.H.I.E.L.D. recruited me for my skills and that was that. I do what I'm told. That doesn't mean I don't have standards and reasons for it, though."

Natasha just nodded. She knew the feeling all too well. The remainder of the walk to the gym was spent in silence, neither caring to elaborate on their painful pasts, or present, for that matter.

Two hours later, a male and female could be found in the ropes of an old boxing ring. There were pictures of famous wrestlers lining the walls of peeling wallpaper. A soft light fell from the row of windows along one of the walls, while the far corners of the room remained dusty and unlit, aside from the few flickering lights dangling from the ceiling. A few punching bags hung unmoving next to a set of bleachers. The wooden floors were dusty and the finish was worn in most places. The fancy shopping bags stuck out drastically from the ratty overall appearance of the gym. The gym served its purpose of privacy, though, but there wasn't much to be said about its rugged shape.

"You can hit me, you know," Natasha said, after many of Clint's failed attempts to land a single blow. "I think we're past the point of chivalry."

"I'm just not good at this." Clint stopped circling Natasha, beads of sweat running down his forehead. His hair, once nicely flipped up, now fell messily over his brow and plastered to the back of his neck. He set to unwrapping the tape from his hands.

"There might come a day when you need it, though." Natasha pulled her hair out of a ponytail and poured some water on the top of her head.

"Like the day I came after you?"

Natasha gave small smile. "It might have helped."

"Why didn't you shoot me when you had the chance?" Clint blurted. "You had a gun, I saw it. You had me in your control and you didn't shoot me. Why."

She sighed and rubbed her forehead, turning to lean against the stretchy ropes of the ring. "You remind me of someone."

"Okay, because that's a justifiable reason," he retorted, rolling his eyes. "And you remind me of a redhead I used to date back in high school." Both agents knew he was lying, Natasha by the look in his eyes and how bad at it he was in general, and Clint by the fact that he'd never dated anyone in high school - they all thought he was too strange. Sure, he had a smart mouth and enjoyed ogling girls, but he was no Tony Stark. No girl would ever want to sleep with him. Hell, his first kiss wasn't even a real kiss, it was on a mission with Hill, and he never heard the end of it from her.

"You remind me of an old partner. He's a good... a good..." She never finished the sentence, instead choosing to replace it with another thought. "Do you ever want to disregard your orders?"

"Sometimes. Actually, I usually just do it." Clint moved over to lean on the ropes next to Natasha. "Coulson is all bark, no bite."

"Have you checked your suitcase recently?" Natasha laughed and Clint nodded his acceptance. She glanced at the ground and cleared her throat. "I know there's more to you than meets the eye," finished Natasha. "That's why. Because some people are just... what they seem. You and him... you aren't; there's something more that you won't tell me. And I kind of like that."

Clint frowned. "What isn't your partner telling you?"

"It isn't anything bad, I'm sure," Natasha assured him. "Some things you can only share with certain people. I guess I'm not the one he wants to share it with. Maybe I just wouldn't understand."

"Yeah..." he said vaguely, ducking out of the ring. "Let's get going. I want to shower before we go out again."

Natasha followed in suit, realizing she must have struck some chord with her last few sentences, because Clint had clammed up with no warning whatsoever. He was probably worried about her old partner, but Natasha trusted him enough to know that her partner wouldn't hide anything dangerous from her. She shrugged it off, forgetting it entirely until later that night, at dinner.

As they sat in the Chinese place, which had become a bit of a joke over the past few days, (and although she refused to admit it, Natasha had quite grown to like the unique taste of the not so authentic food - she would know, having been to China herself many times), Natasha noticed Clint's lack of uniform. "No leotard today, huh?"

"Too tight," he replied, his mind elsewhere. He shoved food around on his plate with his chopsticks, which remained as mere chopsticks today. "Natasha, can I trust you?"

"Yes-"

"Not in the sense where I can trust you to wander the streets or whatever S.H.I.E.L.D. considers trust. I mean, can I talk to you honest and open, and not have you tear me to shreds, figuratively?" He sized up Natasha and added, "Or literally."

"I... I guess."

"I want to tell you what I wasn't telling you."

"That's a mouthful."

Clint stared her straight in the eyes. "I'm serious. What you said about only sharing with certain people-"

"Clint, you've only known me for a little over a week. Don't you want to keep that for someone you know better, who you can relate to?"

"I can relate to you," he said honestly, ducking his head to hide the red blush that spread through his cheeks like wildfire.

Natasha pleaded with him, "Let's just go home. Some things are better left untold." She flagged down the waiter to pay for the check, and when she had turned back, Clint was reading a text on his phone. "Hey, I thought this was supposed to be date night, no phones," she joked, thinking he was disappointed at her refusal to let him speak. Clint only met her gaze with a serious shake of his head.

Taking the pen, he wrote on the back of the check, _Hill's been tapping Smirnov's phone. He has orders to kill you, and he likely has agents roaming the streets for us. Stand up, and tell me I've made a mistake in my math_.

"Did you actually complete high school, Clint? You multiplied wrong. We should be paying forty_ five_ dollars, not fifty. Five dollars tip, not ten," she managed with a bit of an effort.

"For your information, I did fine in math," he said, dropping bills on the table. She followed wordlessly as he made his way to the dark side street the restaurant sat on. He tilted his head up, gazing at the rooftops for any snipers, but adding, "It's a gorgeous night out, look at the stars."

From the apartment complex across the street, another man was watching. He saw his partner's security detail surveying the rooftops, and reached into his bag for a bullet. That was all he would need, just one. As he turned his head to find the case, Clint spotted him and turned back to Natasha. He grabbed her shoulders and spun her to face him. Natasha was expecting Clint to tell her to run. She was expecting him to tell her to hide. The man on the rooftop was ready for either. He placed his finger on the trigger and lined the crosshairs up with Clint's temple. Then, Clint did what neither Russian was expecting.

He leaned forward and captured Natasha's lips in his own. He didn't try to stick his tongue down her throat, move his lips, or anything, much to Natasha's relief. He just sort of... lingered there for a minute, and tilted his head back an inch. "Sorry," he whispered. "But we aren't alone." His eyes shifted left, and Natasha's traced their pattern. Clint took a step back and nervously examined the ground, feeling incredibly awkward especially given the conversation over dinner. When Natasha said nothing, Clint gathered the courage to meet her face again. She was still watching the rooftops. "Natasha."

The man on the rooftop had seen many kisses in his life, never mind that, had _given_ many kisses in his life, enough to know what had feelings tied in and what didn't. And this kiss... well, this kiss had feeling. Through the rifle's scope, he could see the man hiding his gaze from hers, the red creeping up his neck, and the way his shoulders hunched like someone who wasn't confident in what he'd just done. A trained agent would know enough to be confident and maybe even grasp the partner's hand for extra showman ship. But this man... he just stood in shame.

Vasily had said nothing about Natasha having a boyfriend, and this is clearly what this man was. That, or a very skilled S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, one with more experience than himself - and that would be a lot. But this Clint man wasn't carrying a gun, nor a uniform, crossing out that option. Shooting him would be a crime, since he was a mere civilian, even if it did make the man feel better. He stepped back from the rifle and surveyed the pair on the ground, shaking his head in disbelief. He accidentally kicked a few rocks causing a racket on the silent street, but it didn't matter. This was no longer a mission; it was personal now. He saw Natasha's head turn toward the rooftops, likely in response to the sound of the pebbles, a response triggered from her years of training, years he had spent training her.

"James," whispered Natasha. She watched as he disappeared into the shadows, his back now turned on the couple, before once again returning her attention to Clint. Tears fell from her eyes as she mumbled, "James," over and over. Clint wrapped an arm around her and led her back to their shared apartment.

**~Ф~Ф~Ф~Ф~Ф****~Ф~Ф~Ф~Ф~Ф~**

"What was that supposed to be?" screamed Natasha. She slapped Clint flat across the cheek.

Clint rubbed his throbbing cheek. "I could ask you the same thing! You _know_ him?!"

"You _kissed _me!"

"He was going to shoot you! Would you rather have a bullet through your skull?" Clint kicked the door shut and pursed Natasha into the center of the main room of their apartment.

Natasha crossed her arms. "Ohhh, sure, and that's all that was? Trying to prevent an asset from getting shot? It had nothing to do the fact that you've been prancing around me like a love-struck doe for the past few days?"

"You think I was flirting with you? Ha, you wish lady! For your information, you're not even pretty, let alone my type." Clint clenched his jaw and his eyes drilled into Natasha with cold stare.

"Good, because you should know that Bucky and I were in a happy relationship until you had to go and ruin it! You want to know why I didn't kill you? Because I thought you were different. I thought that maybe you weren't like all the other asshole S.H.I.E.L.D. agents who only cared for a paycheck or for getting with hot girls, but I was wrong. You're just like them, and I should've shot you when I still had the chance." With that Natasha stormed into her room and slammed the door.

The words stung like lashes from a whip to Clint. He most certainly was not in it for the paycheck, and to be called an asshole by someone he'd been ready to fully trust? It pierced through his heart like a burning steel knife. Clint buried his head in his hands… How could have things gone so wrong so fast? How was he going to explain this to Coulson? And mostly, why could nothing ever go right for him? He slumped down on the couch and sighed. This was not going to end well on behalf of any parties.

Natasha couldn't – or refused to rather - sleep. Clint's words kept nagging at the recesses of her brain. _He was going to shoot you_. Bucky wouldn't do that, would he? He couldn't, no. They'd been together for too long. Unless... Natasha sat up quickly, the mere idea of something that horrible creeping over her the way quicksand slowly pulls you down. She threw on some clothes and opened the door to her room as quietly as possible, cringing a bit when it creaked. On her tip-toes, she snuck into Clint's room and picked up his phone. Well, it wasn't his personal phone, but rather an S.H.I.E.L.D. issued contact device, and lucky for her, it had a few useful resources on it, such as tracking software and a top-secret classified phone tap from Smirnov's office.

Natasha was long-gone by the time Clint had woken up to get his midnight glass of water and do his "prisoner check". Cursing himself for being so stupid, he pulled on an S.H.I.E.L.D. uniform and grabbed his phone, which he promptly opened to call the situation in, only to discover that Natasha had forgotten to close out of her search. He wouldn't need help with this one; it would probably be more of an afternoon soap opera than prime-time crime show. Sighing, he pocketed his phone and gun, slammed the door a little harder than necessary, and started jogging down the street.

James Barnes angrily scrubbed at his rifle, alternating between rubbing the pieces of it with a dirty cloth and drinking whiskey straight from the bottle. Natasha had been in New York less than a week, and she'd already found a replacement for him? Smirnov hadn't mentioned anything about new relationships. She could just rot in a S.H.I.E.L.D. prison, for all he cared, if that's how she was going to treat him - like he didn't matter to her. Half-drunk and unusually cross, a harsh contrast from his normal level-headed personality, Bucky didn't take notice to the sound of his hotel room door opening.

A gun's safety clicked and a female voice said, "You thought you could go behind my back and kill me, did you?"

Bucky spun around, reaching for his rifle but realizing its parts had been strewn about the bed. His eyes were red-rimmed from jet lag and crying, and his mouth was pressed in a thin line. Natasha could still make out the look of betrayal that glittered in his teary eyes. "Natasha, what are you talking about?"

"Don't pull that bullshit on me, James," she said, inching closer, gun still drawn and face clenched in hatred. "I heard your phone conversation with Smirnov, and I know what you had planned."

"My plan to _save_ you, that is?" retorted Bucky. "I try to extract you from S.H.I.E.L.D. protection, and this is how you repay me? With absurd accusations and a new boyfriend?" Bucky took advantage of Natasha's sudden confusion to dash for the back-up pistol he kept in his bag.

"This only proves it then," Natasha said, regaining her composure, holding her own gun steady and staring blankly down the barrel of Bucky's gun. "Go ahead then, take your shot."

"Bad idea." Both Russians turned their aim to the doorway, where Clint stood, with his gun drawn as well. Upon seeing the amount of firepower in the room, he said, "Woah, relationship issues, I take it? I'm going to just stay over here then, don't mind me." He leaned nonchalantly against the door frame, dropping his gun hand down to his side in a non-threatening gesture.

"Um?" managed Bucky, motioning with his gun towards Clint. "Why is your boyfriend here?"

"I'm not... we're not..." Clint made a thrusting motion with his hips and puckered his lips, then shook his head. "No." He drew his gun again and walked towards the confused Bucky. "See, but the real question is, who are you?" He circled around the brunette, studying the taller male.

"Agent Barton, this is James Barnes, he _was _my partner," Natasha filled in, running one of her hands through her hair. This wasn't how she'd imagined the two males meeting.

"Bucky," he said shortly.

"-and James, this is Agent Barton, he's been watching over me the past week. He was the one sent to kill me."

Bucky's knuckles turned white as he gripped the gun tighter, preparing to add pressure to the trigger and send a bullet through Barton's skull. The corner of his mouth twitched in anger on behalf of Natasha.

Clint whistled. "When you put it that way." He sized up Bucky. "So, you're the assassin, then?" He cocked an eyebrow, shifting his aim towards Natasha then back to Bucky. "Okay, I'm just going to be honest and say that I have no idea which one of you to point this gun at right now."

Bucky gave a blatantly fake, sweet smile and sourly added, "Well then, the feeling is mutual."

* * *

**A/N:** Sorry for the almost two week wait! But, it's a long chapter because I couldn't find a good place to break and I hope it was worth it. Enjoy the chapter guys :D Please review and make me happy - I want to write better, so you guys can enjoy it better. Help a brother out!

**^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^ **_Below is my rant about New Jersey, you don't have to read it. _**^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^**

Fun fact: I actually wrote the airport scene in Newark's arrival terminal, because we were picking up my brother from a flight. So, it's pretty darn accurate.

I'm from New Jersey so I'm legally allowed to bash its reputation. And Newark Int'l. And like every part about it. (No, to be honest, I love this state and nobody actually pronounces it Joisey). I hope you guys caught the reference to the Captain America movie where Bucky said to Steve, "Oh, you're from Paramus now? You know it's illegal to lie on your enlistment form, but seriously, Jersey?"

I suppose it's only fair, because I hate Harlem (we go there for track meets) and basically every part of New York City. Too busy for my taste and too popular. Besides, my 8th grade science teacher was from Brooklyn, man was she a biatch. The only "bad" part about Jersey is both Sea Girt (Jersey Shore house) and Camden (gangs and et cetera). Ugh, and don't start me on the Turnpike. That's literally the highway to hell.

However, I can say that our beaches are really nice, and we don't speak with horrible accents, nor do we act like the idiots on Jersey Shore do. And, hey, Sebastian Stan (actor who plays Bucky) went to Rutgers, which just amuses me because he's the one saying the Jersey line. Rutgers is actually 20 minutes from my house, and it's so fun to go to their sports events. Football's the best though. My trainer occasionally brings some of our farm's horses up to the games for the mascots. It's quite fun!

Anyway, point is: JUST... STOP BASHING MY STATE GUYS. IT DOESN'T SUCK. You are now educated on daily life in Jersey.


End file.
